Lemons & Laundry
by Bisouretro
Summary: Logan + Rogue. When Rogue, angry and bitter, goes to do her daily chores, she may just find a surprise waiting for her. Romance amongst the clean sheets and detergent. Who would have expected it?


_{{Own the characters? No. Own the story? Yes. Love reviews? Most definitely. Approve of plagarism? Most definitely not. Proceed accordingly. And please enjoy.}}_  
  
_**L a u n d r y D a y**_

  
  
"Your turn to do laundry, Marie," Jean had said, leaving no room for argument in her voice. It was a Saturday and the other students, the students who actually had places to go and people to see, had left the Institute hours ago. Kitty had given her a sympathetic look as she pulled on her newest sweater, the flamingo-pink one her parents had sent for Christmas. Rogue was beginning to realize the reason for that look. _Laundry duty_. The chore students dreaded the most. Right along with mopping floors and cooking dinner and cleaning the bathrooms. And Rogue, it seemed, had somehow managed to get assigned all four in a single week.  
  
"Am Ah doing something wrong?" she demanded, arms crossed tight over her chest. Someone had once told her that this was her way of trying to protect her heart. Rogue didn't believe in that body-language bullshit. She crossed her arms because she was freezing her ass off, plain and simple. "Ah've been working more than anybody else lately. Is this some sort of punishment?"  
  
"No, don't be silly, Marie," Jean said, sounding absent-minded. She had her textbooks and binders spread out haphazardly in front of her. Physics test on Monday. "We'd tell you if you were being punished."  
  
"That's nice to know," Rogue said sarcastically.  
  
Jean was too harried to notice the irony. "You're working more than the other students because the other students are gone more often, that's all. It's convenient for you to help out with chores as long as you're here anyway." She scribbled down a row of figures and ran a hand distractedly through her hair. "You're not being _punished_. That's ridiculous."  
  
"So if Ah got out more, Ah'd spend less time on mah knees in front of toilets?"  
  
"Yeah, I guess so. Why _don't_ you leave the Institute more often, Marie? Haven't you been making friends at the high school? There's a party tonight, you know. I could give you a ride."  
  
Rogue knew the party she was talking about. It was being hosted by Marsha Lennon, the cheerleading captain, the one who was always laughing and flirting and smuggling beer into the cafeteria disguised in Pepsi cans. "Ah'm not going."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Ah wasn't invited."  
  
"Oh." Jean nibbled her fingernails, not really listening. Rogue noticed a doodle near the top of her notebook page. _Scott_, it read, surrounded by tiny cartoon hearts and flowers. Good God. "Well, maybe some other time. You need to have more of a social life."  
  
Rogue bristled. "Don't you believe in personal space?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Then why can't Ah ever stay at the Institute and relax? Why am Ah always spending mah free time folding undershirts and mopping the hallways? It doesn't make any sense to me. Ah thought you people respected individuality."  
  
"Marie." Jean sighed wearily. "I'm sorry, and I'll talk it over with the professor. I promise. But right now I'm really busy; you wouldn't _believe_ the stuff I have going on. Would you pretty _please_ do the laundry? You're the only one who's available. Don't act childish."  
  
Rogue knew by now that she was fighting a losing battle. "Fine," she snapped, and stormed out of the room. Jean didn't glance up from her textbook, not even when the door was slammed so hard the picture frames rattled. Outside, Rogue leaned against the wall, frustration welling up inside her like a sour flood. She could never win around here. Do this, do that, scour this, scrub that. She was nothing but a servant to Jean. A Cinderella in combat boots. "She feels sorry for me," Rogue muttered under her breath, stalking down the hall she had spent all yesterday mopping. "She thinks Ah'm a poor, lonely loser who doesn't have anything better to do than clean up after the popular kids. Well, fuck that." Rogue aimed a kick at the floorboards. "Ah don't have to put up with her attitude."  
  
A few of the younger students, just returning from the mall with their arms full of shopping bags and their mouths full of gossip, stopped talking abruptly as she came into view. They stared at her nervously. Typical reaction. Rogue glared at them as she passed. "Have fun?"  
  
One of them nodded fearfully.  
  
"Good for you," Rogue hissed, and turned the corner.  
  
A burst of whispering broke out immediately.  
  
Let them talk. Rogue didn't care. She'd been gaining quite a repuatation, lately; some of the newest students were actually afraid to sit by her at the table. Rumors had sprung up like weeds. So far, Rogue had managed to deduce that she was supposedly a witch, a vampire, a zombie, an alien, or a demon, depending on who was talking. Also, some people said she turned into a bat at night, while others claimed she could slide underneath doorways. Rogue ignored the students; at least to their faces. But at night, when everyone was either asleep or pretending to be, she would lie awake at stare at the ceiling and wonder: _What am I doing here, anyway?_ It was a question that was becoming increasingly harder and harder to answer.  
  
For a few wonderful weeks, when she'd first arrived at Xavier Institute, Rogue had actually believed she might have found it: the perfect place. A home. A refuge from the cold, uncaring world she'd always known. And it had made sense, too. After all, Rogue had figured, everybody at the Institute was a freak. That was the whole point of the place. A handful of them could _pretend_ to act normal, but deep down they were incurably different. Vanishing through walls and shooting fire and walking on water. A whole school of misfits. Why wouldn't Rogue be accepted? What possible reason would they have to reject her?  
  
Well, obviously they'd found one. Rogue wasn't sure what it was yet, but she didn't want to stay long enough to find out. She had made up her mind. "Ah'm leaving," she whispered forcefully under her breath. "Ah'm not going to stick around and let them insult me. Ah'm buying a bus ticket and packing my bags and going. They can manage without me." True, she wasn't exactly sure _where_ she would go, but anywhere was better than this place. If she had to be an outcast, at least she could have a little freedom while she did it.  
  
Rogue, her head a turmoil of bitterness and loneliness and confusion, pushed open the door to the laundry room.  
  
The first whiff of lemon detergent made her anger weaken at once. Rogue shut the door behind her and shut her eyes, breathing deeply. Her heart slowed to a steady rhythym. She always forgot how peaceful this room was. Nobody ever came in here unless they had laundry duty; it was the only private place in the whole school except for the bathroom. Even more private, really, since somebody was always banging on the door when Rogue took a shower or brushed her teeth. Here, she was undisturbed. Completely alone. No prying eyes, no wagging tongues, no critical remarks. Rogue made her way to the two industrial-sized dryers. There was a plastic basket waiting to be filled with freshly-folded sheets. Feeling more relaxed than she had in days, Rogue knelt down and opened the door on the first dryer.  
  
Peace at last.  
  
Rogue reached for the first sheet. A burst of warm air brushed against her skin. The laundry room was painted a yellow color, which had probably been disgustingly cheerful at first. Now it had faded to soft lemon. Lemon, to match the scent of the detergent. Rogue carefully folded the sheet into a neat square. At least she was good at _something_. She placed it in the basket and wondered briefly who would be sleeping on that sheet. Kitty? Kurt? Evan? Scott? Maybe even Jean, exhausted from studying and partying all night. Rogue pushed the thought out of her mind. She didn't care about any of them. She'd be leaving forever in a few days, anyway; once she had collected all her belongings. Rogue reached for the second sheet.  
  
The door swung open.   
  
"Hey!" Feeling annoyed and somehow defensive, Rogue whirled around, scowling. "What's the big idea? I'm busy here, y'know!"  
  
"Whoa, whoa, kid." Logan, startled, held out his hand in a calming gesture. "Settle down. It's just me." He had a laundry basket under one arm, and his dog tags hung over a bare chest. "Is it OK for me to come in? You have me scared now."  
  
"Of course you can come in." Rogue felt color rise to her cheeks, suddenly ashamed of herself. "Ah'm sorry - Ah just - Ah thought - you know," she finished lamely. "Ah thought it was one of those little mallrats." Her eyes darkened.  
  
"No, don't worry, kid. I've never set foot in a mall in my life." He came the rest of the way in and let the door shut behind him. He seemed amused. "Are they gettin' to you?"  
  
"A little," Rogue said, but she could tell that they both knew it was a huge understatement. She hurried to change the subject. "So. What are you doing here, anyway? Ah thought Ah was the only one with laundry duty."  
  
"You aren't. I do my own laundry." Rogue noticed that the laundry basket was filled with crumpled shirts and jeans. Logan set it down on the washer. "I hate doin' chores, so I made a deal with the professor: I take care of myself and he leaves me alone. No moppin' bathrooms." He unfolded a pair of jeans and shook them out. "I'm not much for community service."  
  
"Me either."  
  
Logan grinned at her and winked, conspiritorial. Rogue felt her cheeks flame again, unexpected this time. Her eyes faltered and, to her utter chagrin, she felt her heart speeding up. Logan had always intimidated her. He was so gruff, so rebellious, so reserved. This was one of the first times he'd been really friendly with her, and Rogue discovered she didn't know what to make of it. She turned back to the dryer to hide her befuddled emotions. "Ah - Ah better get busy," she mumbled. Her hands shook a little as she began folding the second sheet.  
  
"Yeah," Logan agreed. There was a long silence. Nobody spoke. The only sounds were rustling cloth, humming machinery, and an occasional shout or laugh from upstairs. Rogue and Logan worked slowly and steadily, folding and sorting. The strong lemon scent made Rogue begin to feel dizzy. Or _was_ it the detergent . . . ?   
  
After a few minutes, Rogue dared herself to glance up discreetly. Logan seemed to be thinking of something; what, she couldn't even begin to guess at. His eyes were distant and there was a slight frown on his mouth. She let her eyes travel down his lean frame. With his shirt off, she could see the ropey muscles underneath his skin; she'd heard rumors that he had been a fighter, once. It showed. Rogue blushed furiously. What was happening? One moment she was all alone, planning to run away. The next moment she was getting a crush on a man years older than herself.  
  
_Goddamn hormones,_ she thought, thoroughly disgusted with herself. _Get a grip, girl. Be realistic. You're acting like an idiot._  
  
All the same, these feelings weren't exactly unpleasant . . .   
  
"Kid."  
  
Rogue started violently, heart thundering in her ears. "Yeah?" she trusted herself to say. "What?"  
  
He met her gaze squarely. What beautiful eyes he had. The color of brandy. His mouth opened to speak, and Rogue imagined letting those lips trace a pattern on her own. _Except that's impossible, and you know it. Even if he did like you, that's completely impossible. As impossible as sprouting wings and flying away._ "Do you know where the detergent is?"  
  
The words brought her down to earth with a crash. "Huh?"  
  
"The detergent. For my laundry. Where is it?"  
  
Rogue was trapped in a web of alternating misery, lust, ecstasy, confusion, and despair. She didn't know what to do. "Over there," she whispered, pointing at a shelf. "It's over there."  
  
"OK." Glancing at her curiously, Logan went to the shelf and reached for the box of detergent. His arms grew taut as he stretched. Rogue imagined being caught between those arms. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself, no, _ordering_ herself to stop this torture. It was impossible, impossible, any way you studied it. When she opened her eyes again, Logan was staring at her, obviously concerned. Rogue opened her mouth but no words came out.  
  
"Is everything OK, kid?" Logan asked. "You seem a little disturbed."  
  
Rogue said the first thing that came to mind. "Ah'm running away."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Ah'm running away, Ah'm leaving." Rogue tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. God, it felt good to get this out in the open. "Ah - Ah don't fit in here. Ah never will. Everybody else, they're - you know. They got along with each other. They joke and have fun and go to parties." She shrugged. "Ah'm not like that, and they can't understand it. If Ah can't have a home, Ah want my freedom. Ah can't stay here any longer."  
  
"Where will you go, kid?" His voice was almost gentle. "How will you earn money?"  
  
"Ah'll buy a bus ticket and go wherever Ah can find a job. Ah'll be a waitress, or - or Ah don't know. Something where Ah don't have to touch people. Nobody needs to know Ah'm a freak. Ah can live alone. Ah've lived alone before. It's not so bad." She hoped she didn't sound as though she was trying to convince herself. "Ah'll be OK."  
  
"It's a tough world, kid."  
  
"Ah know."  
  
"I think you should stay here." He was quiet. "A kid like you needs a home, not an alleyway or a sidewalk. You won't survive two minutes out there." He wasn't being cruel, just honest. "Trust me, kid. I know."  
  
Rogue faltered. "But - but Ah _can't_ stay here."  
  
"Why not? You're respected, you get a good education, you get warm meals and a soft bed. That's a lot more than some people have."  
  
Rogue lowered her voice to a whisper. "Ah'm lonely."  
  
There was a moment of silence. Rogue felt tears burning at the back of her eyelids. She didn't even care. She leaned against the dryer, hands still clutching the sheet, fingers trembling. After a second Logan knelt down beside her, on her level. Their eyes met. Neither of them moved, neither of them spoke. Rogue's breathing grew quicker. She edged closer to him, ever so slightly, so that their knees touched, guarded by clothing. Logan probed her with his gaze. "What are you doin'?"  
  
"Ah - Ah don't know," Rogue whispered. This room didn't seem to be the same building as the rest of the Institute. It was as if they were in a different world, a different place. A world with lemon walls and the smell of clean linen and warm air from the dryer. "Ah'm sitting here with you."  
  
Logan hesitated a moment, then reached out a hand. Protected by the sheet, his fingers grazed her cheek. Rogue closed her eyes and sighed with pure, uncertain pleasure. Logan cupped her face in his hands. "Kid, look at me."  
  
She obeyed. Logan had an expression on his face she'd never seen before. Intense, searching, almost tender. Her heart felt as if it was going out of control.  
  
"If you leave, I'll come after you, you know," he said, tipping her chin up ever so slightly so that they could see each other perfectly. "I won't let you just disappear, kid. You're worth more than that."  
  
"They hate me," Rogue protested, head spinning from the close contact. "They hate me, all of them, and Ah-"  
  
"_I_ don't hate you," Logan interuppted, and his hands tightened. "I've never hated you. You can't say that."  
  
"No," Rogue admitted, softly. "Ah never said that."  
  
Logan stroked the sides of her face. "Will you stay?"  
  
Rogue hesitated.  
  
"Will you stay?" His voice, along with his fingertips, grew more intense. His hands traveled down to her throat, tracing patterns on her collarbone. Rogue gave a shuddering sigh. "Promise me, kid."  
  
"Ah promise," Rogue whispered.  
  
Logan didn't say anything. Just drew her closer to him, wrapping his arms around her until she was pressed against him, crushed against him. The sheet, warm and soft and lemon-scented, wrapped between them. His hands traveled down her body, finding crevices and grooves. He kissed her mouth through the sheet and it tasted like fresh laundry. Warm and groping. Rogue leaned into him, eyes squeezed shut to concentrate better on what was happening. It was so wonderful, the best thing she'd ever felt. If she'd known what it was like to be loved she would have done this a long time ago -   
  
Rogue suddenly wrenched away. "No!"  
  
Logan stared at her. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Ah just - ah just -" Rogue was trembling all over. She couldn't stop herself. "Ah'm afraid."  
  
"Oh, darlin'." Logan's face softened. He reached out and brushed her mouth with the tip of his finger. "Listen, I'm sorry. I was movin' too fast; I shouldn't have done it."  
  
"No, it's OK. Ah just -" Rogue shook her head. "Ah don't know. Everything seems so confusing."  
  
"I know."  
  
Rogue gazed at him from under her lashes. "But Logan?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Ah - Ah liked that." She blushed. "A lot."  
  
"Did you?" He grinned, slightly wolfish. "I thought you would."  
  
Rogue hugged herself, feeling shy but oddly hungry. "Ah - if we weren't in the laundry room, Ah'd -"  
  
"You'd like to continue?"  
  
Rogue nodded.  
  
Logan rose to his feet. "Come on, then, darlin'." He helped her up the floor. Her eyes were bright, her hair was tousled, her lips were slightly parted. He made a little noise of anticipation deep in his throat. "I know a good place."  
  
Rogue smiled.  
  
When Jean came in a few minutes later, weary from studying, she was surprised to see that the laundry room was empty. Half of the sheets lay folded in the basket, while the rest lay crumpled on the floor. A few pairs of jeans, Logan's by the look of them, were tossed haphazardly on the washer. Jean sighed deeply and stopped to pick up one of the sheets. "Can't depend on-" She stopped abruptly, frowning. What was that on the clean white linen? A lipstick stain? A _black_ lipstick stain?  
  
Jean looked over at Logan's clothes and frowned.  
  
Maybe Rogue _did_ have a social life, after all. 

_**T H E E N D**_


End file.
